Flesh Canvas
by Jemi
Summary: AU! Draco is a Parisian painter who has his eyes set on painting a picture of Harry...then painting Harry.


Draco stepped back to admire his work. The painting was exquisite, if he did say so himself. Of course, a lot had to do with his talent, but most had to do with the subject. Harry Potter….

_Draco had been walking from his studio one peaceful Parisian day, when he'd spotted the other man. All of Draco's attention had narrowed to him. There was just something about the man that had enraptured Draco from the start. It was more than his tall, lean frame, or his creamy skin, or even his disheveled raven locks. Taken separately, Draco wouldn't have noticed them, but together the features were gorgeous. And all of it was brought together by the brightest, most beautiful pair of emerald eyes Draco had ever seen._

_Draco had immediately run up to the man, introducing himself and almost, but not quite, begging to be allowed to paint him. At first, the man had been surprised, but after seeing Draco's enthusiasm, he had shyly nodded his consent. _

_Draco learned his named was Harry Potter. He had initially been very quiet, only answering any questions Draco asked. He was a pastry chef, studying under Albus Dumbledore himself. Draco was impressed. Draco was older than Harry, though not by much, and was stunned to learn the other man was British, as Harry's French was perfect._

_Eventually, Harry started speaking more freely, asking questions himself. By unspoken and mutual agreement, neither broached upon subjects that were too personal—meaning, they stayed away from much of the past._

_They'd meet at Draco's studio two nights a week until Draco had a working outline done that they'd both agreed upon. And after that, they'd only met once a week for Draco to work on the painting. It was a personal piece, so took a back seat to his commissioned works…. _

Now that Draco was finished with the painting, he felt as if something was still unfinished between Harry and himself, he just didn't know what.

"I'm finished, Harry."

Harry's eyes sparkled and a smile blossomed across his face. Draco stepped back to allow Harry an unobstructed view. He couldn't help inhaling deeply as Harry passed near him. He smelled like flour and sugar, and under that, like amber. Draco's hand tightened on his paintbrush.

He watched Harry's face as he studied the painting. In it, Harry looked as if he'd just got done running, flying, or fucking. In it, Harry's hair was messier than normal, his eyes brighter and greener, his skin flushed, and a small, secretive smile graced his features. Harry was lying down, looking up and out of the painting.

"It's beautiful. I don't know how you did it, but it seems as if you somehow captured a little bit of me and put it into the painting."

Harry turned and bestowed a beatific smile upon Draco, who found he had to hold onto his stool as he went a little weak in the knees.

"I know just the spot for it. How much do I owe you?"  
Before consciously realizing it, Draco was shaking his head. The thought of Harry paying for this seemed very wrong somehow.

"No, it's a gift. I couldn't possibly charge you for this. It was an honor having the privilege of painting you."

Harry frowned slightly and replied, "I couldn't possibly **_not_** pay you; that wouldn't be fair. After all, you put so much time and effort into this. I really must compensate you for it."

Draco could sense this was important to Harry, so he racked his brain for something of a compromise. Suddenly, he found the perfect solution.

"How about this, you let me paint you?"

Harry looked cutely confused and Draco couldn't blame him.

"But didn't you just do that?"

Draco smiled softly and shook his head as he answered, "No, Harry, I painted a picture of you. Now, I want to paint _you_."

Harry's eyes widened as he fully understood Draco's meaning. A blush covered his skin, tinting his cheeks and neck a becoming pink. His eyes darted about, looking at anything and everything that wasn't Draco. Finally, those verdant orbs settled on the portrait.

Harry raised a hand and taped a finger against his front tooth, completely lost in thought. But, Draco was patient. This way, he could study Harry; how the light kissed his skin, creating deep shadows and highlights; how his brow furrowed in concentration; how his eyes sparkled or glowed or glimmered, depending on Harry's mood.

Other instances sprang to mind from their nights spent together. Harry would become so animated when speaking of a topic which greatly interested him. And he'd sit so quietly and listen when Draco spoke.

Draco would be truly content if he never painted another thing other than Harry. He wanted to paint everything about Harry; there was just something _there_ that inexplicably drew Draco closer to the other man.

"All right, if that's what you really want to do, I agree."

For a short moment, Draco had no idea what Harry was talking about he was so lost in his own thoughts. But when Harry's quiet words finally penetrated through Draco's fantasies, he froze.

"Really?"

Harry nodded and Draco immediately started circling around him. He reached out a hand and swept his fingertip along the length of Harry's neck, delighting in the shivers it caused. Although, Draco didn't really know if it was Harry or himself who shivered.

Draco went into the private part of the studio and retrieved a robe. Handing it to Harry, he said, "The shower is through there. Make sure to wash well and to rinse off all the soap. We don't want anything mixing with the paints. Try not to get your hair wet, either. I'll bring in fresh towels when you call me."

Harry's cheeks pinkened again, but he nodded. Draco tried not to listen to the shower running, tried not to imagine Harry's glistening body beneath the spray of water. Instead, he tried to focus on cleaning an area for Harry to lie, tried to focus on mixing his paints and setting up his palette.

As soon as the shower turned off, Draco jumped up to find the towels for Harry. He opened the door, and then froze at the sight of Harry's back. All that smooth expanse of skin, the dips and valleys from muscle and bone. Draco's hands started to itch at the graceful curve of that spine and at the dip and rise at Harry's buttocks.

Harry's shivering snapped Draco from his trance, sending him rushing forward to drape one of the towels about Harry's shoulders. Thankfully, Harry had managed to keep most of his hair dry as only the ends were wet.

Harry took the ends of the towel and wrapped it more securely about himself. Draco rubbed Harry's arms through the towel, breathing deeply of Harry's new scent. It was the scent of Draco's sandalwood wash, but still that amber was present. A satisfying combination of the two.

"Let's get you dry, then I'll rub a lotion into your skin so it'll act as a sort of buffer to the paint."

Harry just nodded, but Draco noticed his neck was flushed. After Harry was dried, Draco handed him the robe, instructing him to tie it about his waist, so that his upper body remained uncovered. He told Harry to wait in the area Draco had cleared. Meanwhile, Draco went to look for the cold cream one of his ex-girlfriends—or maybe it was his mother?—had left at his studio.

When Draco found the stuff, he walked back into the main room and found Harry sitting on the floor, legs crossed with his hands folded in his lap. He looked to be lost in thought. Draco's fingers twitched in longing—to paint or to touch, he didn't know.

"Are you ready?"

Harry jumped, then blushed, but nodded at Draco. He walked forward and knelt down next to Harry. Unscrewing the lid to the cold cream, Draco winced at just how cold the blue goop was.

"This is going to be cold."

Harry nodded once again, and Draco slathered some onto Harry's back. The muscles tensed, but Draco kept going, kneading the stuff into his creamy skin. He covered all the skin of Harry's back, then moved to do first one arm, then the other, before moving on to Harry's chest. Draco smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"What are you going to paint?"

Draco's head snapped up at the first words Harry had spoken since he'd agreed to be Draco's canvass.

"I'm not sure yet. I don't like to make plans, so I'll just let the brush guide me."

Harry looked contemplative for a moment as he studied Draco. He smiled a small smile and nodded. Draco pushed against the base of Harry's spine and said, "Sit up straight."

Next, he grabbed his palette and a small, fine haired brush, which he dipped in the black paint. It had been ages since Draco had painted like this, without his pre-traced sketching. Oddly enough, he wasn't worried about messing up; he felt sure it would look perfect.

With a confidence he hadn't felt since he'd first picked up a brush, Draco started painting. As soon as the coated bristles touched skin, Harry gasped.

"Sorry, it tickled."

Draco smiled and continued painting the line. He followed the canvass of Harry's shoulder blades, using them as a part of the picture. Some lines were smooth and rounded, others were jagged and rough. Draco lost himself in a hazy, almost trancelike state. He had never been surer of one of his works.

The bowl of liquid he kept at his side eventually went from clear to murky brown. The picture on Harry's back slowly went from stark black outlines to contrasting, bright colors: intense, reds; crystalline blues, golden yellows, and glowing greens.

Draco further lost himself in his work, drowning in creating this masterpiece. As the bird took further shape, Draco wished there was some way he could permanently keep it—keep Harry.

Slowly, Draco drew his brush across Harry's arm, painting the feathers of a wing. He dipped the brush in more paint, and shifted to the front, facing Harry. Pausing briefly, Draco looked into Harry's eyes and noticed they were almost black with only the tiniest sliver of green outlining them. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were slightly parted. Again, Draco was struck by this man's breathtaking beauty.

Blinking slowly, Draco returned his gaze to Harry's chest. He traced the bristles of his paintbrush across a pectoral muscle, down his sternum and just grazed Harry's belly-button.

"Careful, don't move." The gentle chastisement came when Harry sucked in his stomach.

Time flowed by, unheeded by either man. Slowly, the picture formed, painted in painstaking detail. The feathers looked so real that Draco was tempted to reach out and touch them, despite having painted them. The talons looked more than able to rend and tear, and the beak seemed to shine from its sharpness.

When Draco finally finished, his knees hurt, his back ached and his wrist was sore, but any pains were forgotten when he saw his finished work.

Across Harry's skin was the image of a phoenix. On Harry's back, the phoenix's body was red; deep blood red with sprinklings of blue and green feathers. Its tail was gold and wrapped around to Harry's stomach. The wings were unfurled and wrapped about Harry, embracing him. The head was on Harry's neck, facing right, its beak ending just behind Harry's ear. The phoenix's eye was open, fiercely staring out, keeping a vigilant eye for any danger to its human.

"Harry, it's perfect." Draco's whispered words barely reached Harry.

The bird truly seemed alive, like magic, and Harry realized that while the painting was good, it was Harry that made all the difference. It was because the portrait was of Harry that made it Draco's best; it was because it was Harry's body as the canvas that made the phoenix absolutely perfect.

Draco wanted nothing more than to lean forward and capture Harry's lips in a kiss. It was an impulse he'd been fighting for most of their time together. Instead, he looked away, fearing that Harry would pick up on those feelings and urges.

A warm hand captured Draco's chin, forcing him to face Harry again. Immediately, he was captured by that all too intense gaze. He saw compassion and understanding, but most of all, he saw a mirroring emotion.

"Draco, do you _want_ to kiss me?"

He reflexively swallowed at Harry's question but nodded nonetheless. Where had his shy Harry gone? What was up with this new and emboldened man sitting across from him? And why was it that Harry was the one naked—or nearly there save a partially done up robe—but it was Draco that felt exposed?

Slowly, Harry brought their faces closer, never closing his eyes. Draco had ample chance to pull away, but…why? This was what he wanted, right? He wanted to kiss those rose-petal lips, taste that pastry-sweet mouth. It was Draco who sped up the process; Draco who first touched his lips to Harry's; Draco who moaned as the kiss deepened.

Later, it was Harry who ran a paintbrush across Draco's skin, mixing and spreading the paints across a flesh canvass.


End file.
